How to Make an Ass of Yourself Ziplining

So not cute.

Squeezing in all of the wrong places.

While shooting a sizzle reel this past weekend, one of the scenes required yours truly to zipline, which I had never done before. Being a virgin to this activity, I was more concerned with which color of cowboy boot to adorn (naturally), rather than mentally prepping for the hours of hanging by a harness from a rope.

Boot scootin'

The anguish of important decisions.

Upon our arrival to the site, two zip instructors gussied my friend K-bell and I up in their finest attire.

Harness me, please.

Sexiness not included with harness.

While I had no trouble cruising into my adorable harness that made my already ample ass triple three sizes, I made myself vocal (one of my shining qualities) about messing up my ‘do when it came time to wearing the non-fabulous head ornament.


Bitching for one minute…

Moan and groan.

…and moaning and groaning two more.

I was wondering if my instructor, Charlie wouldn’t have to wear a helmet because his hair created one for him.

Already had a helmet on. Natural helmet head.

Helmet head au natural.

When I’d gotten complaining out of my system (for the time being), we were ready to conquer this ziplining shit.


As you can see, Charlie was not at all excited about devirginizing two celibate zippers.

Then it was time to make the trek to our first destination, which was far enough away that I had to squint to see the platform. And of course I had something to say about it.

You want me to walk where?

You want me to walk where?

Anyone bring a flask?

I’m out of breath. My feet hurt. Anyone bring a flask?

Once we arrived to the top of the shortest mountain in Tennessee, I was beyond ready to swing from the sky like Tarzan.


Bring it, Bitch.

In case we needed to know how not to land, there was a handy diagram on our equipment.

How not to land.

If you love your knee function, don’t do this.

Once I’d zipped 42 times (which therefore made me an expert on the sport) I had wise words of wisdom in how to accomplish a first attempt for my gal pal…

Don't be a pussy.

“Don’t be a pussy.”

Upon us both conquering the bunny hill of zipping, it was time for different camera angles. And while Ian, my camera dude, was placing the camera just so, I’m pretty sure he was thinking that working with me was a dream come true as I talked at him…

My feet hurt. Every camera man's dream.

My feet hurt, can I sit down?

Watch the 'do.

That’s too tight on my head.

Watch the aviators, Son!

Watch the aviator shades, Son!

When it came time to zip while wearing the lovely head apparatus, Charlie apparently thought I’d be able to hook myself up to the line all by my lonesome since I’d watched him do it for me 926 other times. It was then that I had to clue him in on my fingernail mantra, “Jewels, not tools.”

Jewels not tools.

I’ll just stand here and not break a nail while you hook me up again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

After zipping for four hours straight, not only were my thighs screaming due to overuse, my crotch was numb from being the sole bearer of my body weight.

My crotch is numb. Take 1,479.

Take 1,479. Ice pack, please.

It's a miracle.

It’s a wrap! Hallelujah. Do you think we’ll ever be able to have babies after this?

Making it back down the hill and posing with our studly instructors, Forest and Charlie, I ripped my harness off faster than a dress hits the floor on prom night.

Image 8

Mission accomplished.

We made it.

We did it.

I made an ass out of myself and it’s captured on film.

But, I survived.

Wish I could say the same for my shit kickers…


Casualties of ziplining.

Oh, and my crotch is still numb if you were wondering.



Victoria Beckham in Cowboy Boots!

After yesterday’s post (click here if you missed) about Victoria Beckham and her statement of not loving cowboy boots in a Glamour magazine article, the fabulous D-Anna from Style Salvation found this picture of the always gorgeous Brit rocking a pair of the footwear she says is a no-no.

Although this photo was snapped in 2005 for I supposed people can change their minds about footwear they deem fabulous…

Looking oh-so-posh in shit kickers.

But if you look this good in cowboy boots, why in the hell would you ever take them off? I for one, would live in them. And the shorts. And then parade around for my hot husband.

Just sayin’!



Victoria Beckham Booted Out of Nashville!

Or, at least I would kick her non-existent ass out, anyway.

I recently read an article in an issue of Glamour magazine where Victoria Beckham said she loathed crocs (anyone who gives a rat’s ass about how they look would never be caught dead in a pair), boat shoes (maybe she has a point unless you yacht) and cowboy boots.  STOP. THE. PRESS.

That’s when I decided Victoria Beckham, style queen extraordinaire, didn’t know what the F she was talking about (and after a quick review, you know who Posh Spice is and don’t know me from Adam). I have long admired Mrs. Beckham’s hot husband, style, hot husband, chic clothing, hot husband and often wondered how much food (and more importantly, Captain) I would have to cut out of my life to attain her figure. But I digress.

Because I live in Nashville, you can see where I may have an issue with her derogatory footwear statement (I wonder how many people in Texas she pissed off?) and I do realize that cowboy boots aren’t for everyone.  I avoid tennis shoes like the plague (unless I’m working out) therefore, grant the western boot my casual shoe of choice.

Even as a kid in Iowa, I rocked cowboy boots and a snazzy hat alongside my sister (all dolled up for the annual rodeo).

Now today, I’m not dressing in the traditional country giddy up when I wear boots, but they can and do look fabulous with t-shirts, tanks, jeans and some ladies can even pull them off with a dress or skirt (mostly Taylor Swift, not regular people).


These boots were made for walkin’… and I have almost walked the soles off of my beloved $25 shit kickers (they aren’t the same brand of boot and I was able to masterfully finagle a killer deal).

My boots come in oh-so-fashionably handy when I know I’ll be  running around all day at work, walking for miles to and from sporting events (since I lack a parking pass) and they are my kick ass cherry on top for concert outfits.


If these boots could talk…

I’ll bet you a pair of cowboy boots that if Victoria Beckham had to walk to the third tier of a stadium to get to her seat, saunter three miles to the concert venue because it cost $25 to park across the street (but only $3 if you park next to the empty warehouse with bars on its windows) or ran errands for a living and didn’t get to sit and design gorgeous clothes all day, she’d be swapping her trademark five-inch heels for something a little more comfortable, like cowboy boots…

But then she wouldn’t be the fabulous Victoria Beckham and I wouldn’t be writing this bitchy post about her now, would I?